Bill cloaks domestic violence suspects

I rarely disagree with women's advocates who devote their lives to empowering females and protecting them from domestic abuse.

But they're wrong to support a provision in a new domestic violence bill that would effectively cloak such crimes in secrecy and prevent the public from learning about reports and arrests.

Last week, in its haste to respond to the high-profile slaying of Jennifer Martel, the state House of Representatives passed a bill that includes harsher penalties for abusers, the creation of new criminal offenses and training for police and prosecutors. It makes strangulation an automatic felony and delays setting bail in domestic violence cases long enough to protect alleged victims from their abusers.

Among those who criticize the bill, not surprisingly, are defense lawyers. They argue that statutes and laws already on the books are adequate and that sections of the new law are overkill. Coming from people whose job involves defending abusers, that response is expected.

But one of the provisions is terrible. It calls for police to keep and maintain a separate, secret police log when it comes to reports of domestic violence, rape or sexual assault. Now, police logs are open to the public. Anyone can see them, and reporters use information on logs to write stories of public interest.

The intent of the provision is well meaning. It's designed to provide privacy and confidentiality to victims of abuse, so they're more comfortable coming forward. It's also intended to spare the victim embarrassment and shield her from her abuser.

But the provision doesn't only shield the victim — it shields the perpetrator, supposedly because identifying him in many cases would also identify the victim. Perhaps even more important, it runs counter to the idea that public awareness and education is one of the biggest deterrents to domestic violence; it never hurts when the perpetrator is identified in the news and shamed.

But this provision prevents citizens from learning about violence that could be taking place in their neighborhoods, their schools, their day care centers. It enables abusers to assault women under the cover of darkness.

Imagine, for example, if such a provision existed in Steubenville, Ohio, where two high school football players were found guilty of sexually assaulting a 16-year-old girl, only after the incident became public. Imagine if the city of Waltham was left in the dark when its police chief assaulted his wife; he resigned after being found guilty last year.

Largely unspoken in these debates is the belief that victims of sexual violence must be shielded from public view because the crime still carries a stigma — women continue to be blamed for sexual attacks that aren't their fault. Currently, for example, the media doesn't identify rape victims without their consent. Women who do allow their names to be published — and I've written about several of them — show extraordinary courage and have said they made the choice to go public to show the world that they're not ashamed.

Women's advocates support the provision and say that any access to information about domestic violence puts victims at risk. But any marginal benefit is offset by the consequence of hiding these crimes and further isolating women.

Politicians are fond of rushing legislation in response to high-profile atrocities, and the Jarod Remy case is no exception.

Bad cases make bad law, however. It's too late to save Martel, but there's still time to fix a bill that goes too far.